Manto and Chughtai

by Muhammed Umar Memon

  Sultana said nothing. The last bangle too was sold. The sight of her bare wrists saddened her. But what could she do? They had to fill their stomachs somehow.

  When five months went by and her earnings remained less than even a quarter of their expenses, her anxiety mounted. Meanwhile, Khuda Bakhsh had also started to stay away from home the whole day, which was yet another source of her grief. It was true that a few of her friends lived in the neighbourhood and she could while away the time with them, but she didn’t feel comfortable hanging out with them for hours every day. Gradually she stopped visiting with them altogether. She stayed in her empty house all day long, crushing betel nut or mending her old clothes. Sometimes she went out to the balcony, stood against the railing, and watched the moving and stationary engines in the railway yard across the street for hours.

  A warehouse stretched from one corner to the other on that side of the street. To the right, huge bales and piles of different goods lay under a metal roof. To the left was an open space with innumerable intersecting railway tracks. Whenever the iron tracks flashed in the sun, Sultana’s eyes fell on her hands where the protruding blue veins looked very much like those tracks. Engines and carriages moved all the time in the open space, this way and that, creating a veritable din with their chug-chug and clatter. On the days when Sultana woke up early in the morning and went out to the balcony, a strange sight greeted her: engines in the misty dawn spewing out thick smoke that climbed slowly towards the murky sky like plump, beefy men. Clouds of steam rose noisily from the tracks and quickly dissolved in the air. Now and then the sight of a shunted carriage left to run on its own along a track reminded her of herself: She too had been pushed out to run on her own along the track of her life. Others simply changed the switches and she kept moving forward—to God knew where; one day, when the momentum had slowly spent itself, she would come to a halt, at some place unknown to her.

  She would peer for hours at the criss-crossing tracks and the engines standing or gliding along them, her mind ceaselessly assaulted by all kinds of thoughts. In Ambala Cantonment, too, her house had been close to the railway station, but she had never looked at these things in such a way there. It was different now. This network of tracks, the steam and smoke rising from them here and there—all this seemed to her like an immense brothel; a profusion of trains being pulled this way or that by big, fat engines. Sometimes the engines looked like those seths who’d visited her in Ambala from time to time. And sometimes when she saw a solitary engine passing slowly by a row of carriages, her mind conjured up the image of a man looking up at the balconies as he passed through the prostitutes’ quarters.

  Sultana was sure that such thoughts would drive her mad some day, so when they started to assault her mind regularly she stopped going to the balcony.

  She pleaded with Khuda Bakhsh repeatedly, ‘For God’s sake have some pity on me. Stay at home. I languish here all day like a sick person.’ But each time Khuda Bakhsh calmed her down, saying, ‘My love, I go out to earn something. God willing, our hard days will soon come to an end.’

  A full five months passed but neither Sultana’s nor Khuda Bakhsh’s hard days came to an end. The month of Muharram was fast approaching. Sultana had no money to buy herself the customary black outfit. Mukhtar had a snazzy Lady Hamilton shirt with black georgette sleeves made for herself and, to go with it, she already had a black satin shalwar which glistened like kajal. Anwari had bought a fine georgette sari. She’d told Sultana that she would wear it over a white bosky petticoat because this was all the rage. She had also bought dainty sandals of black velvet to match her sari. When Sultana saw all this finery the thought that she had no means to buy such clothes to celebrate Muharram deeply saddened her.

  She returned home feeling despondent. It was as though a tumour had sprouted inside her. The house was empty. Khuda Bakhsh was out as usual. She stretched out on the dhurrie and put a bolster under her head. She lay there for quite a while, until her neck began to feel stiff because of the height of the bolster. She got up and went out to the balcony to expel her agonizing thoughts.

  She saw several carriages standing on the tracks but not a single engine. It was evening. The street had been hosed down to keep the dust from rising. Men who furtively glanced at the balconies and then quietly headed home had begun to appear in the bazaar. One of them looked up at Sultana. She smiled at him but quickly forgot about him because an engine had suddenly materialized on the tracks across from her. She looked at it intently and the idea that the engine too was wearing black slowly formed in her mind. To rid herself of this strange thought she turned her gaze to the street and saw the same man who had stared at her lustily standing by an ox-cart. She beckoned to him. He looked around him and then, with a subtle gesture, asked her the way to her flat. She let him know. The man waited a little as if thinking and then briskly came up the stairs.

  Sultana seated him on the dhurrie. To start the conversation she asked, ‘Why were you afraid to come up?’

  ‘What makes you think I was afraid?’ he said, smiling. ‘What was there to be afraid of?’

  ‘Because you hesitated, took some time to think before coming up.’

  The man smiled again and said, ‘You’re mistaken. Actually, I was looking at the flat above yours. A woman there was sticking her tongue out at a man. I found it amusing. When the balcony lit up with a green light, I stayed on a bit longer. I like green light. It’s very soothing to the eyes.’ He let his gaze wander all over the room and then got up.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Sultana asked.

  ‘No. I want to look at your house. Come on, show me all the rooms.’

  One by one she showed him the three rooms. He checked them out without saying a word. When they returned to the room where they had been sitting earlier, he said, ‘My name is Shankar.’

  For the first time she looked at the man closely. He was of medium height and had rather ordinary features, except for unusually bright, clear eyes that occasionally gleamed with a strange brilliance. His body was firm and compact, and his hair was greying around the temples. He had on grey woollen pants and a white shirt with an upturned collar.

  Shankar sat on the dhurrie as though Sultana, not he, was the client.

  This annoyed her a bit, so she asked, ‘Yes . . . what can I do for you?’

  Now he lay down and said, ‘What can you do for me? Rather, what can I do for you? After all you’re the one who summoned me.’

  When Sultana didn’t reply, he sat up again. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘All right, now listen to me. Whatever it is that you were thinking is wrong. I’m not one of those who come up here, pay and leave. I have my fee too, like doctors. Whenever I’m sent for, I expect to be paid.’

  Although this threw her off balance she couldn’t keep from laughing.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I do what you all do,’ he replied.

  ‘I . . . I . . . I don’t do anything.’

  ‘And neither do I.’

  ‘This makes no sense,’ she said in a huff. ‘Surely, you must do something.’

  ‘And so must you,’ he said with perfect equanimity.

  ‘I waste my time.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Well then, let’s waste it together.’

  ‘Fine with me. But remember, I don’t pay for wasting time.’

  ‘Come to your senses. This isn’t a charity house.’

  ‘And I’m not a volunteer either.’

  Sultana paused and then asked, ‘Who are these “volunteers”?’

  ‘Ulloo ke patthe! ’*

  ‘Well, I’m not a “volunteer”.’

  ‘But that guy, that Khuda Bakhsh who lives with you, he certainly is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because for days he’s been visiting a fakir, hoping he will turn his fortunes around when the man can’t even change his own fortunes.’ Shankar laughed.

  ‘You’re a Hindu,’ Sultana shot back, ‘that’s why you ma
ke fun of our holy men.’

  Shankar smiled. ‘The question of Hindu or Muslim doesn’t arise in a place such as this. If the most accomplished pandits or maulvis were to come here, they would all behave like perfect gentlemen.’

  ‘God knows what nonsense you’re talking about. Tell me plainly, will you stay or leave?’

  ‘I’ll stay, but only on the condition I told you.’

  Sultana got up and said, ‘In that case, you’d better be on your way.’ Shankar leisurely got up, thrust both of his hands into his pockets and said on his way out, ‘Now and then I pass by this bazaar. Call me whenever you need me. I’m a very useful man.’

  Shankar departed and Sultana, forgetting all about the black clothes, kept thinking about him for a long time. His banter had appreciably lightened her heart. Had he visited her in Ambala, she would likely have viewed him in a different light. She might even have thrown him out. But here, in her current depressed state of mind, she liked his chatter.

  When Khuda Bakhsh returned in the evening, she asked, ‘Where have you been all day?’

  Looking bone-tired, Khuda Bakhsh said, ‘I had gone to the Old Fort. A holy man is staying there for a few days. I visit him every day in the hope that he might help turn our luck around.’

  ‘Has he said anything to you?’

  ‘No, so far he hasn’t. He hasn’t turned his attention to me, but I’m serving him with my whole heart and soul. It won’t be in vain. With God’s grace our good days will come. Of that I’m sure.’

  Preoccupied with the thought of celebrating Muharram, Sultana said in a doleful voice, ‘You disappear for the whole day every day, while I stay here, cooped up in a cage, unable to go anywhere. Muharram is upon us. Has it occurred to you that I need black mourning clothes. We haven’t got a pie in the house. One by one, all the bangles were sold. Just tell me how we’re going to manage. How long are you going to run after fakirs? It seems to me that God has withdrawn His grace from us here. I say, go back to your old business—it will at least bring in something.’

  He lay down on the dhurrie and said, ‘To restart I’d need a little bit of cash, wouldn’t I? For God’s sake, don’t talk of such painful things. I can’t bear them any more. I made a terrible mistake in leaving Ambala, yes. But whatever happens happens by God’s will . . . and for our own good. Who knows, after suffering a while longer we . . .’

  Sultana cut him short. ‘For God’s sake, do something! Steal. Rob. But get me a shalwar’s length of fabric. I already have a white bosky shirt; I’ll have it dyed. And the white cotton dupatta which you gave me at Diwali can also be dyed along with the shirt. I only lack a shalwar, which you must get me one way or another. Look, you must swear by my life that you’ll get it for me, or you’ll see me dead.’

  Khuda Bakhsh quickly sat up. ‘You keep insisting, but it isn’t fair. Where am I going to get it from? I don’t have a penny even for my opium.’

  ‘I don’t care. Do whatever you must, but bring me four and a half yards of black satin.’

  ‘So pray. Pray that God may send you two or three customers tonight.’

  ‘But you’re not going to lift a finger—is that it? If you tried you could easily make enough to buy the fabric. Satin sold at twelve, at most fourteen annas a yard before the war. Now it’s gone up to a rupee and a quarter. How much money does one need for four and a half yards?’

  ‘All right, if you must insist, I’ll think of some way.’ He got up. ‘But for now, put it out of your mind. Let me get some food from the restaurant.’

  Food arrived. They ate without enjoyment and went to bed. At daybreak Khuda Bakhsh again set off to see the fakir at the Old Fort. Sultana was left alone. She lingered in bed, lolled around some, slept some, and then she got up and wandered around the rooms for a while. After the midday meal she took out her white cotton dupatta and bosky shirt and brought them over to the laundryman downstairs to be dyed black. The laundry shop both washed and dyed clothes.

  She returned home and browsed through some film magazines that featured stories and songs from films she had seen, and dozed off at some point. When she woke up she could tell that it was already four o’clock as the sun was now abreast of the drain in the railway yard. After her bath she threw a woollen shawl around herself and sauntered out on to the balcony. She lingered there for a good hour. Evening had set in, lights were beginning to come on, and the first signs of life could be seen moving about in the street below. There was a nip in the air, but she didn’t find it unpleasant. She had been watching the traffic of cars and tongas for some time when she suddenly caught sight of Shankar. As he came directly underneath her flat, he raised his head and smiled at Sultana. She spontaneously called him up with a gesture of her hand. When he entered, she found herself at a loss for words. She had called him up on an impulse, without thinking. Shankar was completely at ease, as if he was in his own home and, just as he did on his previous visit, stretched out on the dhurrie, supporting his head on the bolster. Realizing that Sultana hadn’t spoken a word for a long time he said, ‘You can call me a hundred times, and send me back just as easily a hundred times . . . it doesn’t bother me—never.’

  She was at her wits’ end and didn’t know what to do. ‘No, no, sit down,’ she said. ‘Who’s asking you to leave?’

  Shankar smiled. ‘So you accept my conditions?’

  ‘What conditions?’ she said, laughing. ‘You aren’t entering into a formal marriage contract with me, are you?’

  ‘Contracts . . . marriage? Neither you nor I will ever get married. These conventions aren’t for the likes of us so drop this nonsense and talk about something real.’

  ‘Well then, what would you like me to talk about?’

  ‘You’re a woman. Say something to amuse my heart for a while. There’s more to life than just business.’

  By now Sultana had started to look favourably at the man. ‘Tell me plainly,’ she said, ‘what do you want from me?’

  ‘Why, the same thing the others want.’ He sat up.

  ‘So there’s no difference between you and them?’

  ‘Between you and me, none, zero; but there’s a world of difference between them and me. There are things that one should never ask about, they should just be sensed.’

  After thinking a while about the underlying meaning of his words, Sultana said, ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘So what do you say?’ he asked.

  ‘All right, you win. But I’m sure no one has ever accepted such a proposition.’

  ‘You’re wrong. You don’t have to go very far. In this very neighbourhood you’ll find many absolutely simple-minded women who would find it very difficult to believe that a woman could ever accept the kind of debasement you go through without even feeling its sting. But regardless of whether they accept it or not, women like you abound . . . you’re Sultana, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sultana.’

  He stood up and laughed. ‘And I’m Shankar. These names, they make no sense. Come on, let’s go to the other room.’

  When they returned to the room with the dhurrie, they were both laughing, God knows why or about what.

  Just as he was about to leave, Sultana asked, ‘Shankar, will you do something for me?’

  ‘First tell me what it is.’

  She felt a bit embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid you might think I’m trying to extract my payment. But . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, don’t stop.’

  She summoned up the courage to say, ‘The thing is, Muharram is coming and I don’t have enough money for a black shalwar. You’ve already heard from me about all our woes. I gave my shirt and dupatta to be dyed just this morning.’

  Shankar heard her and said, ‘So you want me to give you money for a black shalwar?’

  She quickly replied, ‘No, I don’t mean quite that. But, if possible, could you get me a black shalwar?’

  Shankar smiled. ‘When did I ever have any money in my pocket? If I do occasionally, call it pure luck. Anyway, I’ll
try. You’ll get your shalwar on the first day of Muharram. Happy now?’

  He glanced at Sultana’s earrings and said, ‘Can you give me those earrings?’

  ‘What will you do with them,’ she asked, laughing. ‘They’re pretty ordinary silver earrings . . . worth five rupees at the most.’

  ‘I’m asking for the earrings, not their price. Will you?’

  ‘You can have them.’ She removed the earrings and handed them over to Shankar, only to regret it later, but by then Shankar was long gone. She absolutely didn’t believe that Shankar would keep his word. But eight days later, on the first of Muharram, she heard a knock at the door at nine in the morning. She opened the door. Shankar was standing in front of her. He handed her something wrapped in a newspaper and said, ‘It’s a black satin shalwar. Have a look at it. It might be a bit long on you. I have to go now.’

  He just handed over the packet and left without saying anything more. His pants looked crumpled and his hair was pretty messy, as though he’d just gotten up and headed straight to her flat.

  Sultana undid the wrapping. It was a black satin shalwar, exactly like the one she’d seen at Mukhtar’s. She felt overjoyed. The regret she’d felt over her earrings and the ‘transaction’ with Shankar evaporated into thin air. He had lived up to his promise and she’d got her shalwar.

  At noon she collected her shirt and dupatta, now dyed black, from the laundry. After she’d changed into her black outfit she heard someone rapping on the door. She opened it. Mukhtar walked in. She saw the three-piece ensemble on Sultana and said, ‘The shirt and dupatta both look dyed, but the shalwar is new. When did you have it made?’